Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  “Caracalla and Geta?”

  “They were meant to rule jointly, too. Their father had such high hopes. We know how that turned out.”

  A.D. 222

  Spring came early the next year. The Ides of March was still some days away, but the grass was green and along the roadsides wildflowers were in bloom.

  Another monument had been added to the Pinarius family’s plot outside the city, engraved with the letters GAIUS PINARIUS, followed by a eulogy of his accomplishments as a senator, builder, and sculptor.

  Aulus stood before the monument. He poured a libation of wine, then lit a bit of incense. Philostratus was beside him. After a prayer to Fascinus, another to Antinous, a third to Apollonius of Tyana, and a fourth to the Divine Marcus, they returned to the litter that had brought them and headed back to the city.

  “Your father’s illness was brief,” said Philostratus. “For that we can be thankful. He lived to sixty, which is longer than most mortals.”

  “But not as long as his own father, who lived to seventy-one. Tell me, Philostratus, do you subscribe to the school of philosophy that holds mankind is in a state of continual decline, beginning with the supermen of a long-ago Golden Age and descending to the present, so that each generation is a little less hardy, a little less touched with the original fire of creation than the last, so that we dwindle in vigor and lifespan from father to son? In that case, I shall be lucky to live as long as … as you.”

  “Aulus, I am barely in my fifties, and you are barely in your thirties. Neither of us is old! But you pose a serious question. The philosophers of whom you speak believe that the whole universe is in steady decline, not just mankind. They say the cosmos began in a blaze of glory that dims a bit each day, so that it shall end in frigid darkness. As evidence, they say that when they look up at night, the stars glimmer less brightly than when they were boys. But it’s their own eyes that have grown weaker, not the starlight! However it happens, the world’s heat is continually renewed, and so is the vigor of mankind. You shall live to be one hundred, Aulus! In which case, you are barely a third of the way through life.”

  “One hundred?” Aulus reflexively touched the fascinum. “That sounds more like a curse than a blessing. Can any mortal live that long? Would any mortal wish to?”

  “It happens. Hadrian’s friend Phlegon included in his Book of Marvels a list of mortals who reached one hundred.”

  “I wish only to be a man, not a marvel,” said Aulus.

  “Well put! An epigram worthy of the Divine Marcus—but not one likely to be quoted by his successor. You see the emperor regularly nowadays, do you not?”

  “From time to time he submits to sitting still for a few moments, so that I can make progress on his bust.”

  “Tedious work?”

  “Not really. He makes me laugh. Constantly flirting with me, even as he calls me ‘old man’! It’s just his way of conversing. ‘I admit it,’ he told me. ‘I’m a born flirt—like the beautiful flower that nods to every passing bee.’ He can be quite witty. Then out of nowhere he breaks into song—very loud song—in that ululating Phoenician dialect of the Emesenes. He’s quite theatrical.”

  “A difficult subject for the sculptor?”

  “Yes. Getting a likeness isn’t the problem. It’s capturing something of his essence, his particular vitality—the sparkle in his eyes just before he says something that makes me laugh.”

  “His witticisms are wasted on the senators. I never hear them laugh, only grumble.”

  “Let them! From what I can tell, affairs of state are proceeding as smoothly as they ever did under Severus and Caracalla. Or rather, Severus and Caracalla and Domna, I should say.”

  “How I miss her! She was the greatest patron of philosophy since the Divine Marcus.”

  “Now we have Maesa and her two daughters in charge. Amazing, isn’t it? In fact if not in name, the Roman Empire is being run by women. Legitimacy runs through the female line—from the emperor’s wife to her sister, thence to her daughters, and only then to the young emperor and his cousin. No woman has exercised such power since Cleopatra, and even she pales in comparison. Cleopatra had Egypt, and Asia for a while, but Maesa and her daughters rule every province of the Roman Empire.”

  “Like Cleopatra,” observed Philostratus, “they reached such a pinnacle by using their connection to men: Cleopatra through Julius Caesar and Marc Antony, Domna through Severus, Maesa and her daughter through the two young cousins—one or both of them said to be the son of Caracalla. And now those boys rule jointly, since Antoninus adopted him and made him Caesar.”

  “And the day that happened, who was present in the Senate House to oversee the ceremony but all three Emesene women? What a scandal that caused! What would Father have made of it? I wish I’d been there to see it myself.”

  “Someday you, too, will be a senator, Aulus.”

  “Me? I’m neither a military man nor a politician. My only path to the Senate would be a direct appointment by the emperor.”

  “Antoninus certainly likes you. So may his cousin Alexander, when he gets to know you.”

  “Alexander—a Syrian boy with a Greek name, now Caesar and heir to the throne. I can hear my father say, ‘We are a long way from the days of the Divine Marcus.’”

  “Perhaps not so very far. His grandmother has asked me to instruct young Alexander in philosophy, particularly in the teachings of Apollonius of Tyana. We may yet have another philosopher-king on the throne.”

  Aulus looked skeptical. “I once heard Maesa herself say that the boy was very dull.”

  “He’s quiet and withdrawn, I’ll admit. But then, his cousin is extroverted enough for them both. Alexander may be a late bloomer. His mind is sharp enough, though I do despair of his Latin. The boy thinks in Phoenician and speaks in Greek. When he must use Latin, as when he addresses the Senate, you can see him translating in his head, and not always correctly. That halting delivery gives him the appearance of being less clever than he is. Also, he can’t seem to shake his Syrian accent, and that makes him self-conscious. But then, Severus always sounded African, and they say Hadrian never lost his Spanish accent. Anyway, there’s no point in judging him now. Alexander is still only a boy. How old is your Titus?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Old enough to be trusted with a chisel and a priceless piece of marble, like a fully grown man?”

  “Hardly! Not least because he shows so little interest in the craft. Titus always has a book in his hands.”

  “Alexander is not much older, just fourteen. Any regular Roman lad of fourteen is still many months away from donning his manly toga. Alexander still has plenty of growing to do, in body and mind. We can’t expect him to be a man yet, but we shouldn’t underestimate him, either. The fact that Maesa called on me to instruct him is a good sign.”

  “As Plato was to Alexander the Great, so you may be to Rome’s own Alexander!” Aulus said the words half-teasingly, but also with a wish they might come true. “If war comes, can he lead the troops? Can his mother?”

  “The Germans seem to be hibernating. The Parthians are busy with their own politics.”

  Aulus smiled. “The emperor says the heavenly marriage of Elagabalus and Urania brought peace to all mankind.”

  “I only wish that peace reigned in the imperial household!”

  “Are the sisters at odds? Or is it the sons?”

  Philostratus was quiet for a long moment. “It’s become … quite unpleasant. And a little alarming. It’s the loyalty of the Praetorian Guards they’re fighting over. The last time Antoninus and Alexander appeared together before them, many of the Praetorians cheered for Alexander and ignored Antoninus. That made Antoninus furious.”

  “How fickle the Praetorians are. They loved Antoninus when he first arrived in Rome, despite his exotic clothes and his flamboyant personality. Now they love his staid cousin.”

  “I’m not sure the Praetorians really love either of them. It always comes down to money wi
th that lot. The Praetorians literally sold the throne to the highest bidder after Commodus died. Now there’s a bidding war between Soaemias and Mamaea, each putting her son forward. The cousins are supposed to be colleagues, not rivals, but all the courtiers feel pressed to take sides. The Praetorians take advantage of the situation. They play one side against the other, and demand more money.”

  “Unless one partner is the Divine Marcus, can any two mortals share so much power, in perfect balance? The slightest wobble, and the spinning coin skitters off the table.” Aulus lowered his voice. “Are we seeing Caracalla and Geta, all over again?”

  “No, no! The pot is simmering, not boiling over. The real problem for Antoninus is his attachment to that charioteer, Hierocles. What nerve that fellow has! He demands bribes for access to the emperor, and then gives nothing in return—‘selling smoke,’ people call it. He even tried to give orders to the Praetorians, who all despise him. Maesa and the emperor’s mother plead with him to at least send Hierocles away from Rome, but Antoninus refuses to be separated from him.”

  “Nero had a man he called his husband, and another he called his wife,” said Aulus. “It’s all there in Suetonius, as the emperor himself reminded me just the other day.”

  “You might remind him how Nero ended!” said Philostratus. “No, I don’t mean that—touch your fascinum to avert an ill omen. But can’t Antoninus find some other blond charioteer? Hierocles abuses him. It’s a scandal! None of the Emesene women would take abuse from any man, but the emperor seems almost to boast of it. ‘All Carians are wife-beaters,’ he says, and laughs.”

  The litter came to a halt. Aulus peered out the curtains. They had arrived at their destination, the Flavian Amphitheater, where huge teams of laborers and artisans were at work on the final stages of reconstruction and repair.

  Aulus and Philostratus stepped from the litter and slowly circled the vast structure, gazing up at the newly installed statues in their niches, the bronze ones gilded so that they shone in the sunlight, the marble ones painted to look remarkably lifelike. The appearance was of a vast circular gallery on multiple levels displaying priceless images of gods and heroes and even a few philosophers, as Philostratus was happy to note.

  On the facade of the structure and throughout the many stairways and landings within, all the damaged stonework and marble cladding and charred wood had been replaced. The workmen were busy now polishing stone and sanding wood, putting finishing touches on the enormous project. The fire that gutted the structure had been a portent of doom for Macrinus. The reopening, though still months away, would mark a major accomplishment for Antoninus, a portent of good times ahead.

  The two men were inspecting the trappings of the luxuriously appointed imperial box when a figure came running toward them. It was young Titus, gasping for breath.

  “What is it, son?” said Aulus.

  “I was at the workshop, Papa, when one of the workmen told me. I don’t know if it’s true, but on my way here I heard other people saying the same thing—”

  “Saying what, Titus?” asked Philostratus. He had never seen the boy so agitated.

  “A rumor, a story—the emperor and his cousin—and their mothers—they’re all in the compound of the Praetorian Guards, and something is happening. A riot, people say. The Praetorians—out of control, rioting!”

  Even as Aulus and Philostratus wondered if the tale was true, a noise like the droning of bees filled the vast bowl of the amphitheater. Other messengers were arriving and spreading the news among the workmen. To Aulus the noise was uncannily like the hushed, tense murmur of the amphitheater crowd when two gladiators entered the arena, and everyone wondered which would die. The thought seemed ill-omened. Aulus touched the fascinum.

  They left the amphitheater. At the foot of the Colossus, a huge crowd had gathered. There were merchants and sailors, priests and schoolboys, beggars and senators. All was confusion. It never ceased to amaze Aulus how such vast crowds could suddenly assemble in the city, seemingly in the blink of an eye. It was as if the city itself possessed a mind or spirit that alerted its occupants when some great calamity or cause for celebration was at hand.

  They followed the crowd, which seemed to be moving not toward the Forum, where so many mass gatherings took place, but in the opposite direction, funneling into the streets that skirted the slope of the Palatine Hill. In the crush, the three of them were hard-pressed to stay together.

  “Where are we all going?” Aulus shouted. Some in the crowd turned to look at him, but no one answered. At last Aulus saw a man he recognized, a nearly toothless beggar who frequented the Street of the Sandalmakers. “Where is everyone headed?”

  “To the Circus Maximus!” shouted the man. Others overheard, and seemed to think it was an exhortation. They took up the cry. “To the Circus! To the Circus Maximus!” they shouted.

  “But why?” asked Aulus.

  “To see him dragged!” said the beggar, with a cackling laugh. Others took up that cry as well, shouting, “To see him dragged! We’ll see him dragged!”

  The crowd pressed into the Circus entrances, crushing some of the people against the walls. Aulus would have turned back, but they had no choice but to go along with the surge. Inside, while others rushed to the railing, getting as close to the track as they could, Aulus led Philostratus and Titus to a row of seats high in the stands, where they at last escaped the crush.

  “What in the name of Jupiter is happening?” said Aulus.

  “What in the name of Elagabalus, you mean!” shouted a man below them, looking over his shoulder with a leer. “Look, there’s his priest!”

  Below them, on the racetrack, in the midst of a mixed group of Praetorians and citizens, a body was held aloft. The naked flesh was bloodstained and mottled with dark bruises. It appeared to be the body of a young man. At first Aulus thought the wretch might still be alive, but the limpness of the figure as it was tossed about could only be that of a corpse. Aulus drew a sharp breath. The face was too distant to make out. Was it the emperor—or his cousin? The idea that it might be either was appalling.

  “I hear they cut off his mother’s head,” said the leering man. “And they’ll do the same to him! Like mother, like son!”

  “Yes, cut off its head!” someone shouted, and the words became a chant, taken up by the mob. “Cut off its head! Cut off its head! Make sure it’s dead! Cut off its head!”

  The naked corpse vanished amid the crowd on the track, then an opening appeared, and a cheer went up as one of the Praetorians, with a bloody sword in one hand, held up a severed head in the other. For an instant, despite the great distance, Aulus saw the face clearly. His heart lurched in his chest. How well he knew that face, having spent hours trying to capture it in marble.

  “The emperor!” he said.

  Someone nearby overheard and shouted, “Not the emperor anymore, is he?” The wit was rewarded with peals of laughter.

  On the track, the Praetorian with the bloody sword, grinning like a comic actor, brought the severed head closer and closer to his own face, and then gave the gaping mouth a sloppy kiss. The cheering crowd roared with laughter. The Praetorians then took turns tossing the head between them, each trying to outdo the others in a lewd pantomime of lust, sticking out their tongues and kissing the mouth of the dead Antoninus. One of the Praetorians clutched the head to his groins and gyrated his hips, as if forcing the dead emperor to fellate him.

  Their antics amused the crowd for a while, but soon people took up another chant: “Drag it! Drag it! Drag it on the ground! All the way around!”

  A team of horses arrived, pulling a riderless chariot. By its extravagant decoration, Aulus recognized the ceremonial chariot that had delivered the baetyl of Elagabalus to its temple, with the emperor guiding the horses as he walked backward.

  A pair of laughing Praetorians mounted the chariot. The beheaded body was tied by the ankles to the back. One of the men cracked a whip. The other held the head of Antoninus aloft. The horses r
eared and set off at a gallop.

  “Too bad his husband can’t drive the chariot for him!” shouted someone.

  A voice in the crowd answered, “Hierocles was the first one they killed. Chased him like a scared pig, then rammed a spear up his backside until it came out his belly! His bitch of a mother’s been slaughtered, as well.”

  “You know who’s lucky? Zoticus, the one who couldn’t get it up! If he was still in town, the Praetorians would have cut off his penis and strangled him with it!”

  “But they did hunt down the city prefect, and did away with him. And quite a few others from that rotten crowd in the palace…”

  As the chariot raced around the track, waves of cheering erupted from the spectators who had gathered all around the course. More people were still pouring into the stands.

  The chariot completed a full circuit. Praetorians stopped the horses and cut loose the body. The mangled corpse was a ghastly sight.

  “Like the body of Hector, dragged by Achilles around the walls of Troy,” muttered Philostratus. “To read such a thing in Homer is one thing. To actually see it … is another.” He swallowed hard and pressed a fist to his mouth.

  Aulus glanced at Philostratus, who looked pale and sick, and then at Titus. What was his wide-eyed son thinking and feeling at such a moment?

  “Throw it in the sewer!” shouted someone.

  “No!” shouted another. “Roman shit is too good for the Syrian! Throw it in the river, like they do with executed criminals. Throw it in the river!”

  The words set off a new chant. “Throw it in the river! Throw it in the river!”

  The Praetorians began to drag the body away, carrying the head on a spear, marching in the direction of the Tiber. The crowd, eager to miss nothing, moved to follow them.

  “I’ve seen enough,” said Aulus, turning away. Philostratus nodded, still pressing a fist to his mouth. But Titus stepped away from them, moving to follow the crowd.

  “Come, Titus!” said Aulus.